Life as Metaphor
by SecondSilk
Summary: Maybe they aren't having this conversation after all.


Life as Metaphor

* * *

Apropos of nothing at all, Martha asks, "When did you know? For sure, I mean."

There's something different in the way she asks the question, something Mickey's not used to hearing, but the question still makes him pause to gather himself to not be angry.

"Know what?" he says, softly.

Martha's half asleep against his shoulder, staring blankly at the television. They're curled up on the couch together. Mickey has his arm around her, hand resting gently against her hip. He's been entertaining half a thought of slipping his hand under her top to stroke her ribs, but everything inside him has gone cold for a moment, even though he didn't want it to.

"That transitioning was the right decision – the right path," Martha says.

Mickey's lost now. The hope that they weren't going to have this conversation, or at least weren't having it on what was supposed to be a quiet pre-bed interlude of Saturday evening TV, is gone. At the same time, she didn't say, "that you were really a boy," "that you wanted to be a guy".

She struggles upright before he has to decide how to react. Then he distracts himself by watching her brush hair from her face as she turns on the couch to face him. He wants to touch her, but he isn't sure she wants him to.

"Or that you wanted to travel with the Doctor, I guess."

That doesn't seem to follow. Maybe they aren't having this conversation after all.

"I mean," Martha continues, "it's one of those things, isn't it? Even when you've worked out that that is what you want, how much you're prepared to risk for it, when it actually comes down to taking that step, it's still hard.

"Just because you dream of adventure, doesn't mean that you're prepared for it."

Mickey has no idea what they're talking about at all, now. He makes what he hopes is an understanding, agreeing sort of sound, but Martha just shakes her head in frustration. She reaches for him, gets a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. He leans into her, slides a hand up under her shirt and, when she smiles at him, kisses her.

She kisses back, slow and warm. They discovered they were good at this on the rocks beside Jubilee Pool in Penzance, after a run-in with a nervous squid-like being from somewhere Mickey couldn't pronounce. It was the best accident that he had ever been in.

This kiss is slow, content; it's not really going to lead to anything. Mickey pulls back when he works out his answer to Martha questions.

"I always had my Gran," he explains. "She gave me all the support I needed, so it was never a question of deciding to transition. It was just what I had to do to grow up properly.

"And travelling with the Doctor was more about Rose, anyway. I'd have followed her anywhere."

And he had, until he stopped.

Martha still has her hands cupped around his face. She holds him still so she can study him. He can't image what she sees: soft jaw, two days of stubble, eyes wide with nerves.

She lets out a slow breath, steeling herself. Mickey prepares himself for something horrible. If this is the conversation he thought it was, experience tells him that what comes next will take at least two days and six pints to get past.

"Marry me," she says. "Will you marry me?"

So it turns out they've been having a completely different conversation, one Mickey is not at all prepared for. He blinks, nods, blinks some more. "Yes," he says, less because he understands the question than because that particular note of excitement in Martha's voice always leads to adventure.

When Mickey can focus on her face, Martha is still watching him, expectation fading into concern.

"I thought," he tries to explain. "When you asked about—" He makes a gesture.

Martha seems to realise the anxiety he hadn't quite let himself feel. She looks startlingly cute when she's annoyed at herself.

She pulls him into a hug. When the relief fades enough for Mickey's brain to start ticking again, he realises that they're engaged. He squeezes her tight. She giggles.

"You're different, Mickey. You're unusual. And not just because of that. But the places I've been, the people I've met: You're not istrange/i."

Mickey laughs against her shoulder. Then he kisses her neck. Then her jaw. He gets his hands back under her top and to her ribs, where's she ticklish.

Martha pulls back just enough so she can move to straddle him. Her grin is wicked and when she kisses him, it's definitely the sort of kiss that leads to something.


End file.
